The candle factory on Maple Lane had operated since the 1800s, pouring wax into molds, wicks cut by hand, scents drifting downwind. It supplied churches, birthdays, blackout kits. Its workers were proud of their craft. Then, one autumn, candles refused to burn for lies. It started with a politician’s rally. Someone lit candles onstage; they flickered out each time the speaker lied. The audience laughed, then murmured. Videos went viral. The factory was blamed. Orders flooded in from fact-checkers and pranksters.
The factory owner, Mr. Dalton, insisted nothing had changed in production. Workers whispered about a new batch of beeswax from a monastery known for truth vows. The candles seemed to have absorbed honesty. Customers requested “truth candles.” Dalton saw profit. He trademarked “Veritas Flame,” raised prices, refused to increase wages. Workers grumbled. The candles burned erratically when they did.
Jada, a line worker, noticed a pattern. The more Dalton lied about pay, the more candles sputtered in her hands. She believed the wax responded to injustice. She proposed a strike. Some laughed. “We’ll be replaced by machines.” Jada argued that machines couldn’t pour intent. They walked out, leaving vats cooling. Dalton panicked. Orders piled up. He hired temps. The candles those temps made burned fine for birthdays but went out at lies, as before. Dalton refused to negotiate.
The union called a formal strike. Picket signs read, “No Truth Without Fairness.” Media loved the symbolism: truth candles striking for truth. Customers boycotted Dalton. Churches canceled orders. Dalton finally sat down. Jada demanded fair pay, safety measures, profit sharing. Dalton agreed to some, balked at sharing. Jada lit a candle on the table. “Tell the truth about profits,” she said. He lied. The candle died. He sighed and opened the books. The truth was ugly. He conceded more.
Strike settled, workers returned. They renamed the product “Solidarity Flame” internally. They kept quality high, but with a new condition: a portion of profits funded fact-checking organizations and worker education. Dalton grumbled but enjoyed the good PR. The candles retained their honesty trait. People used them in board meetings, therapy sessions, dates. “If it goes out, check your words,” became a slogan.
Years later, automation arrived. Machines poured wax with precision. Workers feared redundancy. Jada, now a supervisor, negotiated retraining. They learned machine maintenance, scent chemistry, candle design. They kept human hands in the process, believing intent mattered. The candles still refused to burn for lies. When a new CEO tried to cut corners, the production line stalled mysteriously. Workers smiled. Some factories have ghosts; theirs had ethics baked into wax.
Jada retired with a pension won in that first strike. She lit a candle at home when reading the news. It sputtered often. She kept matches nearby, not to force a burn, but to remind herself that truth requires tending, in conversations and in factories.
On her last day at the factory, she poured one candle herself, old-school, without machines. She etched “keep honest” on its base. She left it on Dalton’s desk. He found it, lit it, and watched it burn steady, a small negotiation still glowing in wax.